


all the things yet to come

by neurolingual



Category: RWBY
Genre: 3 x 23, Alternate Universe - High School, Car Sex, F/F, Semi-Public Sex, Sex in a Car, Soulmates, and it's pussy babe!, blake and yang are in love and also they are soulmates!, its june 9th y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neurolingual/pseuds/neurolingual
Summary: She only has weeks left with her best friend, the girl who is so much more to her than just a title, especially something so platonic.So, Yang shows her anything but.She takes Blake’s chin with her right hand, thumb and forefinger the main support, and brings their lips together, searing soft promises against her mouth as something unshakeable, longing and forever.(There’s an everlasting feel to Blake Belladonna, and Yang is nothing if not an enthusiast).





	all the things yet to come

**Author's Note:**

> xo

It should start with the beginning, Yang thinks—or, at least the moment where she and Blake had realized they were doomed to be inevitable.

But, of course, it doesn’t.

The more she thinks on it, however—Blake strapped into the passenger seat beside her, a dazed look cast out of the window, trees rushing by—there was no singular epiphany, no obvious declaration of who and what they were to themselves and each other. The more she’s chewed on it (and there have been nights where Yang was restless, the worst of her insomnia taking over as if considering she and Blake had been less than _meant to know each other_ , it’d be an annoyance, like something stuck in her teeth), the harder it becomes to separate from where they intertwine, in life, direction and hands, tightly held between them on the center console. Blake’s grip is iron, not necessarily as though she’s afraid, but as if she’s holding onto something that’s missing, slipping through the cracks, even as Yang remains steadfast beside her, anchoring her to the pleather seats, Yang’s ancient Subaru chugging up a winding hill.

It’s a road she’s taken a hundred times, and both of them together nearly all of those. More often than not, it was to cut between the traffic peeling out from the school parking lot, but they had made every turn their own, trees and ponds adding together like a collection; tokens for the travel, markers for the destination in the unlikely event of becoming lost.

But Yang knows where she’s headed. The road winds, and collects dirt partway through, but the low rumble of the engine guides them forward, the soft beats of Blake’s playlist an accompanying tune. Yang knows the words to this song as thought they were written when she closed her eyes, remembers the nights curled into Blake’s side and singing it into her ear, but this time—neither of them dares to break the nature of the silence crafted between them, something like glass on the brink of shatter.

Blake drums along with the music and Yang can’t stop her smile, slowing to take a sharp left. Their hands remain clasped, a chain, a link to keep their gravity at bay. A thumb traces along Yang’s knuckle—Blake’s here, always, beside her in more ways than one—and Yang knows the collapse before it’s spoken, how she’s been in love with her best friend like she was born into it.

Of course, Yang had always known she was different; at least, that’s how her father liked to put it after she came out to him (Summer had been completely unphased—not a day goes by where Yang doesn’t ache for her gentle guidance). Loving girls hadn’t shocked her. In fact, when she first discovered herself, she was more concerned that her first feeling that rolled through had not been shame, especially paired with the way she dragged her eyes down the legs of the varsity lacrosse captain in the girls’ locker room. It had barely surprised Ruby, who had walked in on Yang with her tongue in their best friend’s mouth at the (one and only) party they went to together.

(Weiss still won’t talk about it).

There had been nothing or no one that could shake her. Whispers fell broken from her shoulders like crumbling dust, stares and pointed fingers passing by her as if leaves ghosting past her unnoticed until she crunched them beneath her boots. At that point, she had had sixteen years to grow into herself; now, she stood at eighteen, not necessarily less confident in herself, but in who the person Blake saw her as.

As Blake has been the only person to leave Yang unsure, for better and for worse.

Tonight, Yang intends to make her feelings known, whether or not it tears them apart.

The hill comes into view and Yang shifts back down to second gear; the loss of Blake’s touch instantly missed. At this time of night, with luck, they should be the only ones around, the protection of secrecy below the branches hung. The car rolls to a stop, and Yang presses her foot down onto the clutch, puts the gear in first, and turns off the engine, leaving them masked with silence.

Above, the stars are at their most visible, the sky dusted with memories of the universe come and gone. Yang has always loved the stars, has loved the way Blake follows them with her eyes, a fascination so pure that it’s like she’s never seen them before.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, peering out the window, and Yang only stares, finds moonlight in Blake’s hair and the way it dusts over her shoulders, and alights with memories of their own.

The days before they met, longing glances and voices unknown.

The library in which they shared, the space between for their seats dwindling until they’re side-by-side, pretending to share notes for classes they hadn’t even shared with one another.

The first time Blake came over to her house, and then the first time she slept over, full on pizza and the cheap beer they stole from Yang’s dad’s minifridge, watching videos until they fell asleep, nearly on top of one another.

The first time Blake didn’t show to school, and the first time Yang went to her house, only to find Blake crying, distraught over the wounds of her past, still too fresh to truly heal.

The movies they watched, stories they shared, the nights beside a bonfire where Yang would take Blake’s hand, a gentle hook of fingers and Blake would hold her true, something precious and treasured.

The night they spent fixing Blake’s graduation cap, finding a tactful way to cut slits for her ears to seek comfort. How Yang cheered when Blake was called to the stage, the way she nearly cried when Blake held her diploma for a picture, knowing the sacrifices she made to even dress in their school colors.

The cascade of confetti and crowded cheers, finding Blake among the chaos, searching for nothing and no one but her.

And it’s as though all things and everything led to this moment, and Yang was finally able to follow through.

“Yeah,” Yang whispers, and it all comes undone. Blake looks to her like she knows, and in a way, she always has. “You are.”

The center console was the least of their worries; Blake threads her fingers through Yang’s hair, shaking it loose to tether herself, hooded eyes molten and smile, crooked, dastardly, and wanting, lip caught between her teeth, and Yang—

Yang leaps for them both.

The grip in her hair is lost as she balls the collar of Blake’s sweater in her fist and pulls her forward, mouth crashing against a smile that curls like shorelines. At the tide she meets no hesitation, Blake aching for her; she parts her lips and Yang licks into her mouth and claims the moan that she feels against her palms as she presses them to Blake’s throat, dragging her hands to hold her by the jaw. Leaning farther over the center console, Yang can only hope to get closer, sucking on Blake’s bottom lip and releasing with an audible _pop_.

It takes only a moment for her to look—at Blake’s mouth, messy and smeared where Yang had been, rings of gold and amber having been devoured, chest heaving on the exhale—and Yang takes her again, threading her hands through silken black to expose the column of Blake’s throat. Her mouth latches where Blake’s heart beats, heavy pedal on a kick-drum, teeth grazing just where muscles bend to her will.

Yang parts her lips, holds Blake’s pulse against her tongue, and _sucks_.

The desperate way Blake clings to the back of Yang’s neck, the guttural break of a moan cracking from her lungs like thunder, like lightning, darkened clouds and the way her ass grinds into Yang’s passenger seat like a downpour sends Yang’s core tight, her body following the ache that grows with rolling hips—

Into the buckle for her seatbelt.

“Ow, _fuck_ ,” Yang snarls, quick to pull from Blake’s neck; a trail of spit from where a bruise grows hot and dark, purple where a blushing pink dared to flower beneath.

“Wh—huh?” Blake heaves, following after Yang’s mouth until she’s too far away. “Why’d you stop?”

“Seatbelt,” Yang says, sigh almost painful through her nose, eyes shut tight. She squirms—the spike of heat between her thighs melts her, biting the inside of her cheek. Her face crumbles with the part of her lips, Blake’s eyes dragging over her face like a yearning, a need.

“Are you okay?” Blake manages to catch Yang’s attention, ducking her head to find her, body poised and tight, but still. “Do you want to stop?”

The mix of heady breath with the lilt that holds to Blake’s question, familiar in the way that Yang knows Blake’s asking with all of her in the intent. She meets Blake, the red that keep the presence of her teeth on Blake’s neck, the hickey darker than moments ago, blood pooling to a wound given with care, the mouth that starves in the absence of Yang’s, kiss-swollen lips and a tongue needing to taste more.

A shake of her head and Yang has an arm tight around Blake’s trunk, another reaching below her seat to the lever that slides her back and, taking cues, Blake goes when she’s pulled, when beckoned. Her knee jostles the gearshift, ear bumping the rearview and folding back as she swings her right leg over Yang’s lap and straddles her lap, the press of the door handle grating on her thigh.

Rolling her hips, Blake swallows the gasp Yang loses hold of and her tongue presses to Yang’s, tasting her.

Of all the ways that Yang had imagined their first kiss, she certainly hadn’t pictured it happening in the front seat of her beat-up station wagon.

The first time, it was the moment their eyes had met across the cafeteria. Ruby had been tossing grapes into the air, Yang catching them in her mouth. She had been on a winning streak—ten-and-oh, not having lost a single one. There was a collective turn of heads when the door swung open, a young girl standing still, eyes focused on the bow atop of her.

No doubt, Yang hadn’t been the only one to think of kissing her the moment their eyes met, but she was going to make sure that she would be the only one to follow through.

The second, third, and fourth times, the library had been nearly empty after school. It was the only time Yang had actually been productive with her studying, the rare afternoons where she had more than five minutes to herself. At the beginning of the year, Yang essentially had had the place to herself, perusing the shelves at will, the pressure drifting from her shoulders in the silence. When Blake appeared, a quarter of the way into the school year, the library became a space of their own, though neither girl dared to bridge the quiet.

That is, until Yang grew tired of the walls, and held herself with a fumbled grace and an open hand, their palms meeting with smiles that shared the same wealth of delicacy.

The fourth, fifth, sixth, and every time after, all Blake had to do was enter the room, and Yang would find any excuse to hold Blake’s palm in her own, the dependency mirrored in the girl no longer hiding behind a pretty, black bow.

In the short while that they have known each other, the nights they spent curled in bed under the guise of friendship, both knowing that they were more than that, more than words could hold, could define; they were gravity incarnate, in such a way, the world within their orbits. Blake touches her and Yang envisions supernovas, creating the universe in which they were always meant to live.

Maybe, in an odd twist of ways, they had been heading in this direction longer than either of them realized, just happing to collide in a space cramped with suede, coffee stains harsh on the seats.

(A bit dramatic, possibly, but Yang’s not one to be tricked by fate).

They move together like second nature, Yang rising where Blake falls, tempted by roaming hands. Yang’s tongue in Blake’s mouth, her palms splay open over the skin exposed where her sweater crops over the high-waist of her jeans, thumb on the base of her spine. Blake breathes, sharp with her exhale, and it glides over Yang’s cheeks, hands cupping her jaw.

With confidence spurred, Yang ventures both low and high, daring her chances. Blake must be able to feel her hands roam, Yang’s intent not under any guise.

Blake doesn’t stop her, and so Yang only grows, one hand reaching over to cup Blake’s ass, the other on her breast. A groan rolls hot and heavy from between Blake’s teeth, and Yang aches for more, aches to know what other noises she can coax free for her own benefit.

Her thumb seeks the peak of a nipple, rough where it should be—Blake’s gasp confirms, and she repeats the motion thrice over, across with pressure enough to elicit more.

It’s without thought that Blake grinds down, seeking more than what’s being given to her now. They both still, Yang’s hands hovering just above where they burned into skin, Blake’s thighs clenched to keep her in place.

Their eyes meet and it’s a catalyst—for what, Yang isn’t sure, but whatever had held Blake back from seeking touch in ways Yang had never given had gone. Hands settle on shoulders and hips, and Blake cants again, and the most broken and beautiful sound tumbles from her lips, kindle for a fire Yang could never put out.

Having Blake in her lap isn’t enough. Yang doesn’t think it ever could be.

And their mouths crash, tongues and teeth licking, biting where they could, nearly a year of hands tied behind backs breaking free and loose. Blake’s fingers are threaded through Yang’s hair once more, needing the security to hold her upright. What emboldens her, Yang still hasn’t discovered, but her hands find the supple flesh of Blake’s abdomen below her sweater and drift lower, lower, settling on thighs past where she never thought they’d be.

A finger toys with the button on Blake’s jeans. A nod, and Yang undoes her, slipping her hand between Blake’s thighs and feels the dark, wet heat of her against her palm.

The touch scorches her, and Blake arcs into her hand, a mewl rough from her throat.

“Shit,” Yang husks, feeling all of Blake’s cunt in careful strokes.

“You’re…” Blake bites down on her lip against a swipe over her clit, stills her hips as best she can. “You’re telling me.”

“I…” Yang stares at her hand slipping under pink lace, the way the fabric bends with her fingers, slow and searching.

A hum hangs on a moan, and Blake takes her hands and slides them up and over Yang’s shoulders, her neck, and takes her cheeks in her hands, pulling Yang’s face forward to kiss her.

Her hand slips lower, testing the restraints of Blake’s clothing. Palm against Blake’s clit Yang intends to stroke inside her, feeling the muscles above her hand tighten in anticipation, a yearning cant to have something inside her, something to grind herself down onto.

She meets no resistance; Yang slips a finger inside of her, and Blake tosses herself back, daring to lower herself—

Onto the horn, which blares under the pressure of her back.

Yang’s afraid she’s scratched her with the force of Blake leaping up and off of her hand, head slamming into the roof above. She grits her teeth and groans, holding the top of her head.

The beat of Yang’s heart slows from its fear. “Christ.”

Blake pouts, rubbing her forehead. “You’re telling me.”

There’s a certain beauty about her now, disheveled by Yang and Yang only, that sparks something inside her, something deep and carnal that dares for something more, something closer and heady, where Blake will be everywhere all at once.

“Wait,” Yang quips, wiggling her hips up into Blake. The horn still has her rattled, but her attention is rapt, finding Yang in the dark. “Climb into the back. I have an idea.”

Blinking, Blake searches her face. “What?”

And Yang smiles. “Trust me.”

It’s not the easiest transition, but they manage to climb up and over the center console and into the back, Blake not necessarily sitting down onto the bench, pants still askew. The way Yang settles, tilting back against the panels of the cabin, Blake takes unsteady hands and shimmies out of her pants, Yang thinking better of herself and reaching forward to help, signaling her intent.

The slim form of the bench makes it nearly impossible for the both of them to be comfortable, but with great effort Blake manages to straddle Yang’s hips, bracing herself on Yang’s shoulders.

Yang only watches, brow cocked. “What are you doing?”

Despite herself, Blake’s face blooms with scarlet, her eyes suddenly nervous, seeking the comfort of something else. “Oh, did I—” her hips start to lift, thighs flexing to right herself. “I thought that—”

“You’re just in the wrong place,” Yang says, tugging Blake forward.

Blake looks, but there’s no verbal explanation to follow. “Where am I supposed to be?”

Hoisting her is even more difficult when there’s little more than a few feet between the bench and the ceiling, but they manage. It takes a bit of funny hopping on one foot from Blake and wiggling in discomfort from Yang—Blake pinches Yang’s side with her knee and Yang smacks Blake in the kidney—but Yang isn’t one to argue, especially as Blake cunts is inches from her face, seeking the taste of her.

“You can’t be comfortable,” Blake argues, but still settles over Yang’s head, hips aching to roll at the sight of Yang’s pink tongue darting to part her lips, hungry for the taste of her.

“I don’t care,” Yang huffs, fingers digging into Blake’s hips, watching the crease between Blake’s brows as she shifts her closer, pussy wet and dripping from having been touched by Yang’s hands. Her mouth waters, tongue pressed to her teeth.

But Blake turns her head, carefully, to take in their positions: she herself is bent in such a way that her forehead nearly touches the window behind the driver’s side; Yang is as far down the bench as she can go, one knee curled up and behind her left thigh, which drapes over the suede edge, extending at an odd angle under the junction of the passenger seat. There’s barely enough of a perch for Blake to hold herself up on, opting for the headrest to her right and the seatbelt extension to her left, grip precarious.

“You can’t be comfortable,” Blake tries once more, but Yang sees the flutter at her pulse, feels the muscles tighten at her core. Her thumb hard at the jut of Blake’s hip, dragging across her navel and swiping back across. Blake’s eyes slip closed, lips pressed together and sighing in such a way that she sinks lower, despite herself.

“I don’t. Care.” Yang needs her, needs to know how Blake tastes, needs to see her grind down on her face, needs Blake to see herself sloppy as she rides her.

“Yang—”

Yang strokes two fingers between the thatch of dark hair and up Blake’s cunt, a tight circle over her clit before sucking her fingers between her lips, licking each one as Blake watches, wide-eyed, hungry for much the same.

The headiness of her, the sweetness and the tang of Blake has Yang pulling on sharp hips as she takes Blake into her mouth, tasting all of her, hair rough and lovely on her chin, her upper lip.

Yang moans against her and Blake arches with the jolt, smacking the back of her head against the ceiling of the car but Yang licks her cunt with deliberate force, and Blake sinks against her, hips reaching after the curl of Yang’s tongue.

“Oh, my god,” Blake whimpers, jaw hanging open, cocked and crooked, arms taut to hold herself up. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Yang smiles, mouth over Blake’s clit and presses in hard, fast strokes, tongue flat. As Yang swipes up, Blake grinds down, smearing herself over Yang’s chin.

With a careful grace, Yang parts Blake and teases a finger into her, just to the first knuckle. Above, Blake jerks forward, hips rising just high enough for an idea to strike: Yang grabs Blake’s ass, lifting her from her face for the briefest of moments, inching down on the bench and licks Blake again, stroking her tongue up inside her.

Blake nearly cries.

The back of Blake’s head has become familiar with the roof, at this point, and with the gusto of tossing herself back, Yang’s surprised Blake hasn’t concussed. But the guttural moan that bleeds from her throat, hoarse and rising; the way her hand collides forward with the small window, fingers splayed against the plexi, fog outlining the heat of her palm; how she weaves between them to fist her hand in Yang’s hair, pulling Yang against her with each stroke inside her; the slack of her jaw, quivering with each cant of her hips, demanding Yang deeper, harder: leaves Yang restless, wet and soaking between her thighs, through her underwear, to the suede below her hips.

A particularly hard tug on her hair has Yang peering upwards from underneath Blake, lilac stacking gold. Blake has managed a sharp look about her, fist clenching to bring Yang’s mouth away from her, and Yang allows for Blake to take control of her own thighs once more, where she spreads herself above her.

Removing one of Yang’s hands from behind her, Blake wedges their arms beneath her until Yang’s palm is flat on her clit, hard in the creases. What comes forth is a groan, a struggling intent as she aches for release, begging Yang in quiet action.

That is, until Yang does nothing but tease, flicking the tip of her tongue out against Blake’s clit, making her squirm without the promise of relief, slipping a finger only to the first knuckle again inside of her, taunting in its desire for depth.

When Blake finally realizes what Yang’s given to her—control, command, to seek her orgasm in the way that she wills, entrusting herself to break barriers—Yang can see the three-beat hammer of a heavy pulse at the base of Blake’s throat, a rush of air that seeks release in defiance.

“Fuck me,” Blake commands, and Yang does as she’s willed, sinking two fingers into the girl writhing above her to the hilt of her palm, tongue hot and flat in stroke with the motion of curling fingers inside her.

Blake is warm and wet, Yang easily fucking her cunt until she can slide in a third finger; a flutter to accommodate and then Blake clenches around her once more, and Yang follows each jolt of Blake’s hips with her mouth, tongue hot on her clit, refusing to go a moment where Blake can’t feel her, where Blake can’t feel her trust meld to Yang’s hands, steadfast on the backs of her thighs.

 It’s a slow curl of Yang’s fingers that unravels her, Blake caught in the surprise of herself; the intent of her words falls broken through a moan that claims the depth of the car and encloses around them both, hips thrusting down to grind sloppily on Yang’s mouth as she cums, riding the wave of release.

Blake is all over—on Yang’s fingers, her chin, in her mouth and through blonde curls as something starts them both. Yang moves to pull her fingers away with a final swipe of her tongue and Blake is cumming a second time in near tandem with the first, a peak where neither of them had expected to rise.

The way she spills from herself, high and breathy and croaked where the space is full of her voice, the sounds she makes, burns low in Yang’s belly, clit throbbing with her soaked cunt, awaiting Blake and all she’s worth.

Blake slumps forward, bracing herself on the window and over Yang’s head as her legs shake, unsteady. She senses the need before Blake does herself; patting Blake’s thigh, Yang begins to lift herself, shoulders rising off the bench and it takes Blake one, two, three slowing blinks to understand. She shimmies backwards in such a way that Yang chuckles, the girl she’s just fucked well and good dancing on her knees in an absurdly distracting manner. Blake helps Yang upright, and—it takes an odd maneuver before they’re steady, certain—they hold on another, Yang’s back to the small rest perched below the window (uncomfortable, but obsolete) and Blake soft in her lap, fingers drumming over Yang’s shoulder blades to their own beat. She hums into Yang’s neck, bones heavy with their love and presses a line of gentle kisses up Yang’s throat, her jaw, over cheeks that bloom with pink-tinged laughter as Blake smiles against her mouth, Yang happy to greet her.

They kiss, languid, slow, searching for one another in the downfall, in the calm that follows, the home they’ve carved for one another. Yang’s fingers are still wet from Blake, no doubt being felt as she grips Blake’s naked thigh, a delicate trace along the ridge of tight muscles. Blake’s got her thumbs swiping lazy over the arch of Yang’s cheekbones, yearning for the warmth and tenderness of the other girl after being taken as hers.

Blake’s mouth is supple and soft, finding all of the ways that Yang likes to be kissed without having to ask, as intrinsic as knowing herself, Yang thinks, an ache between her ribs that has everything to do with love beating through her veins. An ache that reaches for a golden-eyed girl with a smile more wicked than the dark, a heart that bleeds with a starving fondness for knowing the good in others, and hands strong enough to hold Yang together when she bends and breaks to meld her back together, to bring them closer until where they are two separate people begins to blur.

An open mouth to allow Blake to taste herself, but:

“I love you.”

It should stop the world from spinning. It should stop the chilling crawl of emotion that inches up her spine. It should stop the way that Blake’s eyes melt as they search for the truth, finding it splayed over every inch of Yang in the way that her skin remains pliable under her hands.

What it does, is this:

Blake grabs her jaw and doesn’t allow room for argument, crashes against Yang with all of herself, hips to hips, chests lifting with breath as one, a shine to her eyes as she pulls away, tilts Yang’s forehead against her own so that gold and lilac meet like lovers holding hands along shorelines, destined for one another.

“I love you so much,” Blake pours forward from herself, kisses Yang once, twice, never fleeting. “I always knew. I always have.” Blake can’t stop herself—as if Yang would dare to stop her, anyhow, finding her own truth in words spoken by the other half of herself. “I’ve been in love with you since the moment I saw you.” A smile, bright and full of everything she’s said and everything she wants to.

Without thought, Yang shakes herself free from Blake’s hands tangled in her hair and tucks herself into Blake’s chest. Blake holds Yang’s against her, cheek resting atop, eyes closed.

Yang breathes her in, feels Blake’s heart pound in her own chest.

 _I love you. I love you. I love you_.

A shift for comfort, and a shock finds its way from Yang’s body in a gasp, the seam of her jeans against her wet underwear.

There’s a part of her, however small, that wants to have Blake sprawled open on her linens, wants to savor their moment of saccharine security like sweetened taffy stuck to her teeth. Yang runs her hands, deliberate, along the course of Blake’s thighs, enough pressure placed on her ascent that, as she finally once more slips her hands over the swell of Blake’s hips, under the knit of her sweater and along the soft flesh of her belly, Blake hums, smile lazy, happy to receive more attention.

But it’s not what she gets.

Not exactly.

The heat between Yang’s thighs is almost unbearable; each miniscule shift of her legs, each breath that Blake takes, lifting and drifting back down onto her, makes her clit throb, desperate for Blake’s mouth, her fingers—at this point, Yang aches for any sort or pressure, even considering getting herself off and making Blake watch, unable to touch her.

She settled on actions more direct.

Blake pouts, a slight pucker of her bottom lip when Yang drags her hands out from under her shirt. Adorable, really, if Yang weren’t so horny that the thought of those pretty pink lips parting over her clit didn’t send her reeling. But she needs contact, needs Blake to know where she’s wanted, where Yang will have her touch her, how deep inside Blake will slip her fingers.

Eyes with Blake the entire reach, her hand wraps around Blake’s throat, thumb on a fluttering pulse just below the crook of her jaw, and squeezes.

Black swallows gold like broken nebulas, stardust still creeping in the depths.

Beneath her hand, Yang can feel the rise of a moan that leaves Blake hoarse, nails digging sinking crescents into Yang’s forearm as Blake closes her eyes, bites down on her lip. Yang adds more pressure, and there’s a quirk, an arch to Blake’s brow that claims the wash of pleasure hiding in her gestures. Grinding down onto Yang’s thigh has her groaning, hips jerking with the pressure of another build-up sure to follow. Yang can see—can _feel_ —the desperate way in which Blake aches to toss her head back, needing herself to come undone. The confines of the ceiling are already nearly mashing her ears, tucked down against her head, and there’s a part of Yang that feels wholely guilty for causing Blake discomfort, but, thus far, she hasn’t complained once.

And grinding down on her thigh again, Yang thinks that’s the furthest thing from Blake’s mind.

But as Blake lifts her hips with the intent for more, Yang presses her thumb and forefinger harder under her jaw, palm laying claim, Blake’s eyes are on her again, a near snarl parting her lips that sends a shock straight to Yang’s cunt, clit throbbing in an aching need.

She yanks one of Blake’s free, fingers around her wrist and commands, “Touch me.”

Bending her elbow, Yang brings Blake closer to her mouth, biting down on the lip she delights in tasting, a teasing trace of her tongue. There’s a wild look in Blake’s eye, flaring molten and sparking against an anvil as she taps Yang’s arm, who instantly pulls away. Blake crashes down onto her, mouth parting to slip her tongue into Yang’s mouth as she finally kisses her, one hand in Yang’s hair and the other desperately trying to shove the jacket off and over her shoulders.

Yang complies, arching her back to shrug off the bomber and Blake curls against her, seizing the moment to straddle Yang as best as she can. One leg has to bend to floor for comfort, though it’s anything but. Blake is undeterred, tossing Yang’s jacket onto the floor, working on yanking the frayed, sleeveless tee over Yang’s head, stopping herself from bending back over to Yang’s mouth, eyes cast down to her abdomen.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Blake gasps, hands coming to fold over the hard lines of Yang’s abs, clenched together under her touch.

Her surprise is incredibly charming, flattering, though a bit odd. “You’ve seen them before.”

“Yeah, but, like,” Blake gestures, loose, to the state of undress they both found themselves in, their heaving chests and wet mouths. “Not like this.”

Yang’s grin is toothy, wide. “Enjoying your walk down memory lane?”

A laugh breaks shared between them and settles with comfort around both their shoulders, a weighted blanket to hold them close. Blake drops a kiss to her forehead before seeking her mouth, letting the warmth flourish under their skin.

The pause is nearly painted over, Blake deliberate in the way she strokes her hands over Yang’s stomach, parting from Yang’s mouth to sink her teeth into the junction of Yang’s shoulder. Yang groans, fingers slotting against the notches of Blakes spine, holding her close. There’s a bit of fumbling, the cramped space not allowing the necessary freedom for this all to happen fluidly, but Blake manages to pop the button of Yang’s jeans, zipper undone and slips under the waistband of Yang’s boy shorts, over the smooth patch of skin.

When Blake strokes herself against Yang’s dripping cunt, both of them nearly cry out as one.

Yang hadn’t expected the moan to croak out of her that high-pitched, Blake swiping her fingers over Yang’s clit, albeit a bit clumsily. Blake knows herself, knows what she likes, Yang thinks, and would be more than happy to allow Blake to explore on her own terms in the knot in her belly wasn’t tight enough to be painful.

Blake’s always been the best with direct, anyhow.

“Two fingers inside,” Yang bites out, clawing down Blake’s back, lines of red following in her wake. “Palm flat.”

Blake does as she’s told, wiggling her hand down father to slip herself inside of Yang, forehead dropping to Yang’s shoulders as she feels her, feels all of her, hot and tight for the first time. Yang breaks, pulling Blake as close as she can for the comfort of them both, mouth just above one of Blake’s ears.

Grinding down onto Blake’s palm, Yang stutters through a moan and then presses her cheek to Blake’s hair, leaves a kiss and coos into her ear, “Fuck me, baby.”

Blake’s hips jerk in her lap. Yang’s careful not to laugh, especially as it adds pressure to her clit, throat tight around a cry. Teeth dig painful into her neck and Yang loves it, cants her hips up as Blake soothes the wound with her tongue, broad and flat. Blake’s fingers curl inside her, slower than Yang is used to doing for herself. She doesn’t pull herself out entirely but does so just enough to add another finger before curling back inside her, Yang desperate to feel full.

“God,” Yang groans, fingers in Yang’s hair. “Baby, you fuck me so well.”

There’s a whimper she feels against her neck, teeth following where an open mouth sucks, sloppy.

“Blake,” Yang pants; Blake’s hips seek relief. “You feel so good inside me.”

“Yang,” comes her name, heavy on Blake’s tongue like a sinking ship, and Yang needs to taste her, needs her tongue in Blake’s mouth, as each thrust of her hips Yang meets with Blake’s hand brings her closer, ready to spill out and over hersslf. A hand on Blake’s neck guides them back together, waves on a shoreline once more.

There’s a flutter in her belly at the way Blake’s middle finger curls and reaches, and Yang breaks away from Blake’s mouth, resting their foreheads together.

“Look at me,” she says.

Purple and gold have never fit so well together.

“Don’t stop,” Yang whimpers, tilting Blake’s neck to command her focus. “Don’t stop fucking me.”

Blake shakes her head, as if offering her response.

“I wa—“ Yang breaks in a moan, muscles tight, Blake’s palm firm on her clit. “I want you to watch me cum.” Yang closes her eyes for the briefest of moments. “I want you to watch me cum around your fingers.”

“Yang,” Blake says to her, desperate. She strokes her in broad curls, slowing in the way she beckons. It’s enough, the change in both pressure and persistence, for Yang to clench down against her, arcing into Blake’s palm.

“I’m—“ Yang can’t hold herself together. “I’m gonna cum—“

“I’ve got you,” Blake whispers, keeping Yang’s eyes. “Cum for me.”

Yang breaks apart with a cry that’s as desperate for the girl in her lap as is her heart, a staccato beating away as its own percussion.

Blake curls her fingers inside her to help Yang ride out her orgasm, and even after Yang hums, presses a lazy kiss to her cheek, Blake remains. Yang fully understands—the notion of being as one, together in a blissful downfall built only for each other.

As much as Yang wants her to stay, as much as Yang wants to curl closer into her, she says:

“Okay, I _know t_ hat _you’re_ not comfortable, now.”

Blake laughs, giving herself away. “I mean, my wrist kind of hurts.”

Yang joins, smile finding Blake as they right themselves.

(As comfortably as they can in the backseat of a car, that is).

They fall silent, but the car is filled with their presence, the way they beckoned and called, having and needing only each other. Blake drops her eyes, pink cheeked, and splays her hand over Yang’s abdomen, tracing the hard lines that flutter beneath her fingertips.

Yang makes a note to show off as much as she can before they leave.

And Blake says it for them both, crestfallen in such a way Yang has never seen, an open tenderness that feels like Blake has been wanting to share with her for quite some time.

“I’m scared,” she says, and won’t meet Yang’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do without you.”

It’s a plague that Yang has taken on herself as the year passed by, paying little attention to the time they had left. The last time Yang had paid attention, in had been August of the previous year, and now.

She only has weeks left with her best friend, the girl who is so much more to her than just a title, especially something so platonic.

So, Yang shows her anything but.

She takes Blake’s chin with her right hand, thumb and forefinger the main support, and brings their lips together, searing soft promises against her mouth as something unshakeable, longing and forever.

(There’s an everlasting feel to Blake Belladonna, and Yang is nothing if not an enthusiast).

Blake is malleable in her hands, and Yang intends to build a better foundation with their trust.

Pulling away from her mouth, Yang guides Blake’s eyes to her own. “Hey,” she murmurs, thumb on Blake’s chin. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

One at a time, Blake’s ears perk, searching Yang’s face for anything but the truth, knowing that she’ll never find it there—knowing it will never even come from a whisper in the way Yang says her name, soft lilts and flowered edges. Yang knows Blake better, better than Blake knows herself, maybe, and while running away had been in her past, it would never be a part of her future.

“I love you,” Yang says, forehead against Blake’s. “And I trust you. No matter what.”

Blake doesn’t search any longer. “No matter what,” she echoes, and leans in for another kiss.

That is, until, her ear cocks to the side, head snapping up and to the left, peering out of the back windshield. Yang’s eyes are half closed, lips still puckered, leaning in to meet no one.

“Someone’s coming,” Blake urges, voice a hitch above a whisper, feeling around on the bench for her pants and underwear.

Yang blinks up at her, bleary. “Huh?”

“Yang,  _seriously_!” Blake fumbles to scoot herself out of Yang’s lap, arm caught in the strap of the seat belt. She shakes herself loose. “Someone is coming over here!”

Shooting upright, Yang peers out the window just in time to see a flash of light skirt over the branches hanging above the hood of her station wagon. It searches the woods ahead, its caster still not having broached the crest of the hill behind them. The circle that shines between the trees, however, only grows in its width, and before long does it shine through the windshield, Yang blocking it from her eyes.

Blinking, it’s only then that she remembers the horn.

A rock settles heavy in her stomach.

“Oh, _fuck!_ ”

Blake has already scrambled into the front seat, doing her best to wriggle her jeans over her thighs, cheeks awash with blooming pink. She’s busy yanking on her seatbelt as Yang hops over the center console, crashing into her seat and reaching for the ignition.

The engine chokes, remaining lifeless on the hilltop.

“No, no.” She tries once more, the ignition still not catching. “ _No, no, no_!”

“Yang,” comes Blake, a warning in her tone. “I can see someone over the hill.”

Peeking over her shoulder, Yang turns the key, basing all her luck on the engine churning to life.

It chugs, chugs, and once more over, and as soon as she hears a faint garble of someone calling out to them, the car sputters to life and Yang shifts out of neutral, slamming her foot onto the accelerator and flying forward, skidding against the dirt and gravel. Blake braces against the dash, pants still unbuttoned at the waist.

They don’t see who found them, nor do they care to find out. Peeling out along the dirt road, they nearly careen onto the asphalt, slamming to a stop that hurls them both forward, car sputtering at the loss of speed. Yang looks over to her partner, a wild look about them both, and Blake reaches into the backseat, hands Yang her bomber to slip back over her shoulders to retain some modicum of self-preservation.

Foot on the clutch, Yang pulls the parking brake and shifts back down into neutral, turning to face Blake as though they were miles away.

They lock eyes.

And then keel over in laughter, hearty enough to bust stitches.

Yang has to sink back into her seat, a hand nearly shielding the entirety of her face. Blake fairs not much better, bent over herself and clutching onto her thighs.

Peeking out from over her fingers, Yang swears she has never seen a woman so beautiful.

Blake looks to her and she knows that this is her forever.

“C’mon,” she shifts into gear, takes Blake’s hand with one gentle squeeze, pulling forward past the stop sign, a smile fixed permanent and crooked on her mouth. “Let’s go home.”

(Home entails much the same, though infinitely softer. The intimacy of their bodies flush against the other, tangled in Blake’s purple linens, strikes Yang in every brush of Blake’s hands over her body, the kisses along her throat, the fingers that curl inside her.

Lying beneath her, Blake pulls Yang down against her mouth, licks up her cunt and Yang bucks her hips, grinding down onto her face.

Holding Blake’s hands to her, an anchor meant to last, Yang finds herself letting go, falling into the arms of the girl who loves her).

**Author's Note:**

> title from "wasteland, baby!" by hozier
> 
> : )
> 
> happy pride!


End file.
